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that voice was a deathless song.
F. Scott Fitzgerald
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F. Scott Fitzgerald
Age: 43 †
Born: 1897
Born: September 24
Died: 1940
Died: December 21
Author
Novelist
Screenwriter
Short Story Writer
Writer
St Paul
Minnesota
Francis Scott Fitzgerald
Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald
Deathless
Voice
Song
More quotes by F. Scott Fitzgerald
When he buys his ties he has to ask if gin will make them run.
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Shakespeare--whetting, frustrating, surprising and gratifying.
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There has never been an American tragedy. There have only been great failures.
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the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions.
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Before you criticize others, remember, they may not have had the same opportunities in life as you have had
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What do you think of that? It’s stopped raining. I’m glad Jay. Her throat, full of aching, grieving beauty, told only of her unexpected joy.
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It’s a great advantage not to drink among hard drinking people.
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It was only a sunny smile, and little it cost in the giving, but like morning light it scattered the night and made the day worth living.
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Premature success gives one an almost mystical conception of destiny as opposed to will power-at its worst the Napoleonic delusion.
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At any rate, let us love for a while, for a year or so, you and me. That's a form of divine drunkenness that we can all try. There are only diamonds in the whole world, diamonds and perhaps the shabby gift of disillusion.
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Most people think everybody feels about them much more violently than they actually do they think other people's opinions of them swing through great arcs of approval or disapproval.
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I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart.
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She wanted to exist only as a conscious flower, prolonging and preserving herself
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Her beauty climbed the rolling slope, it came into the room, rustling ghost-like through the curtains.
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Kiss me now, love me now.
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His hand took hold of hers, and as she said something low in his ear he turned toward her with a rush of emotion. I think that voice held him most, with its fluctuating, feverish warmth, because it couldn’t be over-dreamed —that voice was a deathless song.
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Riches have never fascinated me, unless combined with the greatest charm or distinction.
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Long ago, there was something in me, but now that thing is gone. Now that thing is gone, that thing is gone. I cannot cry. I cannot care. That thing will come back no more.
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Selfish people are in a way terribly capable of great loves.
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For awhile after you quit Keats all other poetry seems to be only whistling or humming.
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